


Day One

by Crowgirl



Series: Boston 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Humor, Domestic, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pre-Slash, cosy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 14:25:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl





	Day One

‘Do you need help?’

‘Not from you.’

Castiel pauses, frowns. The answer is curt, but the night is cold, coming on to rain, and the street in front of his publisher’s small building is largely deserted. The few cars that are parked here belong to people who live in the brownstones across the street and are unlikely to venture out into a chill autumn night to help a stranded motorist. ‘Are you sure?’

There’s an impatient sigh. ‘Dude, unless you’ve got jumper cables in your pocket--’ A head pops around the hood. ‘Y’can’t help me.’

‘Jumper cables?’

Another sigh, close to a groan this time, louder, and more impatient, and the head vanishes back under the hood. There is no other answer.

Castiel shrugs, goes back into the building, and talks briefly to the remaining security guard who is happy to dig in the emergency store under his desk. 

When Castiel goes back outside, the sky has darkened noticeably and a thin sprinkle is beginning to dampen the pavement. He puts up his umbrella, congratulates himself on remembering his raincoat, and walks back to the low-slung black car at the curb. ‘Excuse me.’

The head, hair more rumpled than before, pops around the raised hood. ‘You again.’

Castiel can’t think of anything better to say than: ‘Here.’ He holds out the jumper cables.

The man stands up, rolling out one shoulder as if it aches. ‘Look, man, I’ll move her as soon as I-- oh. Hey...’ He reaches out, but doesn’t take the cables. 

‘But -- do you not need another car?’ Castiel gestures with the cables which thump against his arm. ‘To...complete the circuit?’

‘Uh...yeah.’ The man scratches at the back of his neck and offers Castiel a rather sheepish smile, teeth flashing bright in the dim lights of the building. ‘Yeah, I kinda do.’

‘Wait here.’ Castiel drops the cables on the bumper of the car and walks away, faintly hearing the young man mutter something like: ‘Can’t run away, can I.’

* * *

Castiel’s car is almost the last left on the street: a lone, dark grey Toyota under a slowly dripping maple tree. 

He does not hurry to get to it -- but he does wonder if the young man will bother to wait for him. If the car really will not start then, of course, he will _have_ to wait. If it is a set-up of some kind -- and Castiel honestly cannot see what could be gained by it -- then he will most likely be gone. Either way, there is little to be gained or lost; at worse, he will owe Jack the guard a new set of jumper cables.

When he pulls onto the street, the rain is coming down a little harder. The black car is still there and the young man, too, leaning against the bumper, the hood open behind him. His arms are crossed over his chest and he’s got something pulled over his head: the hood of a sweatshirt, Castiel realises, as he pulls his car up opposite.

As soon as he gets out, moving to prop up the hood of the Toyota, the young man speaks: ‘I can’t pay you anythin’.’ His voice is flat and he doesn’t move away from the car. It is as if he expects Castiel to turn straight around and drive off.

‘Did I ask?’ Castiel holds out his hand. ‘Give me the cables.’

Silently, the young man holds out one set of clips and they attach them; the young man fastens the last clip to a bolt near the side panel of his car. Castiel leans in through the door and starts his car without getting inside then stands under his umbrella on the pavement. He thinks about offering half of its protection to the young man, but he seems happier to stand with arms firmly crossed once again, glowering at his car as though it has done him a personal disservice. 

‘Where are you travelling to?’

‘That any of your business?’

‘No,’ Castiel replies mildly. ‘But it is dark, cold, raining, and you are the only person here to talk to.’

The young man snorts, shifts position, and answers: ‘California. My brother lives out there.’

‘Ah. A...family reunion?’ The words are a little awkward, but he thinks that is what he means.

‘Somethin’ like that.’ The young man clears his throat, shifts position again. ‘Yeah...somethin’ like that.’

Castiel tries to think of something else to say. ‘Have...have you driven far?’

‘From Kansas.’ And the young man winces as if that were the wrong thing to say.

Castiel blinks and cannot stop himself from saying, ‘To...Boston? To get to California?’

‘Yeah, I had to...take a detour. Couple of detours.’ He shifts again, switching the cross of his arms. ‘Look, it’s a long story, okay? Just a...long fuckin’ story. You don’t wanna know.’

Castiel cannot agree with that; he is a thwarted story-teller by profession so of _course_ he wants to know. He wants to know _everything._ But he can agree with the undertone which tells him that this is none of his business. ‘What is your name?’

‘What’s yours?’

‘Castiel.’

‘Your parents hate you or somethin’?’

‘I never knew them. The name was, I believe, chosen from a list.’

‘Oh. I...sorry. I didn’t...’ The young man turns abruptly towards him, shoving out a hand. ‘Dean.’

‘A pleasure to meet you.’ Castiel shakes his hand gravely.

‘You must not get out much if this seems like fun.’ Dean snorts and tucks his hand back under his arm.

Castiel reflects for a moment and considers that the true answer -- _I do not go out much_ \-- would likely sound peculiar to Dean. It does to most people. It has been a long day and he is tired, so he remains silent rather than say anything. 

‘So...you work here?’ Dean waves a hand over his shoulder.

Castiel glances back at the building. ‘No. I was dropping something off.’

Dean nods and Castiel catches him stealing a glance sideways. ‘Y’don’t look like a bike courier.’

Castiel bites back a laugh, looking down at himself and pulling the battered trenchcoat more tightly around his legs. The dress trousers may be old, but that is no reason to abuse them. ‘No. I am not. I...work from home.’

‘Surprised you can’t do most of that online.’ Dean stifles a sneeze against the back of one hand and shrugs deeper into his coat.

‘Most of it I do. Some requires paper.’ It didn’t, not really. But sometimes he liked paper.

Dean nods, stifles another sneeze. Castiel frowns and sidles a little closer, extending the umbrella as cautiously as he can.

It takes Dean a minute to notice the rain is no longer falling on him and he glowers upwards then at Castiel. ‘Hey, man, I don’t swing that way.’

Castiel blinks for a minute before he understand what Dean is saying and then he can feel himself blushing. ‘Ah. No. The point is to avoid being soaked by the rain.’

Dean says nothing but reaches up and yanks the hood of his sweatshirt further forward. Since the fabric is nearly wet through, Castiel is unsure what the point of this is, but he stays where he is.

The cars hum, the cables jerk occasionally, and the rain continues to patter down on them both. Dean stifles another few sneezes, then fails to stifle a particularly explosive one and Castiel can hear him swearing into his hands.

‘Are you unwell?’

‘Not fucking yet,’ Dean mutters and sniffs loudly. ‘’m fine. I’ll be better once I get back on the road.’

‘There is a drugstore nearby if--’

‘Hey, man, I already told you--’ Dean immediately begins to back away, his hands out, though whether in defense or offense Castiel could not say.

‘--you require cold remedies,’ Castiel continues as if Dean had not spoken.

‘Oh.’ Dean scowls for a minute, then tucks his hands tightly under his arms and shrugs awkwardly. ‘Sorry...it’s...sorry.’

Castiel shakes his head. ‘Do not worry. I think perhaps you might try your car?’

Dean’s vehicle coughs, sputters, almost catches -- then chokes and falls silent. 

Castiel can hear Dean’s heartfelt, ‘Fuck.’

Castiel carefully closes the hood of his car and wraps the jumper cables into a neat coil. He hesitates for a minute before closing the door and walking over to the door of Dean’s car.

The young man is resting his head on the steering wheel, swearing quietly and fluently. Castiel taps on the window and Dean starts, then rolls it down and leans out. ‘It was a good idea, man -- thanks.’

‘What will you do now?’

‘Uh...well...’ Dean leans back, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. He shrugs. ‘Y'know, thought I’d maybe get a bite to eat, take in a show...’ He rubs the back of his wrist over his forehead and forces a grin. ‘Know anywhere good to eat around here? And who’s likely to tow my car? Just so I know where to start tomorrow morning.’

‘I can arrange for it to be towed to a garage for you.’

Dean grimaces but nods.

‘You had better come with me -- you can talk to Jack and make what arrangements you need.’

* * *

The security guard, Jack, is sympathetic, sharing his own story of being stuck on the side of the highway one winter’s night in Maine waiting for a AAA truck for three hours. Dean counters with a blown-out tire on a back road in Kentucky during a cross-country trip. Castiel finally suggests that an actual tow truck in the here and now be called.

The only garage Jack knows off-hand is a small one in Allston, but he swears up and down that it’s reliable, cheap, and will take good care of Dean’s car. He makes the call, passes the phone to Dean so he can talk to the driver -- there’s a flurry of technical language that Castiel doesn’t really follow -- and then takes the receiver back to give directions.

Dean sneezes again and Jack, hanging up the phone, suggests that he can wait just as comfortably for the tow truck in here as out in a car that won’t start. He has to walk his rounds through the building but---?

Castiel shrugs and agrees to stay with Dean. 

‘Y’don’t have to do that. I can wait outside.’ Dean pushes the hood of his sweatshirt back, scrubs his fingers through his hair and sneezes.

‘I would prefer not to send you on your way with pneumonia.’ Castiel gestures towards the couches set in one corner of the room, near the door and the wide front window overlooking the street. 

‘Why? Y’don’t know me.’ Despite his objections, Dean slumps down into one corner of a leather couch and sighs, stretching back and pushing his legs out in evident pleasure. The leather jacket he has on over the sweatshirt -- both slightly too large for him -- is dappled with rain and starting to soak through over his shoulders and elbows. 

Castiel takes a more decorous seat opposite him, balancing his furled umbrella carefully against the edge of the chair and making sure he can see the street outside. 

‘So what do you do?’ Dean wriggles out of the leather jacket, evidently feels the dampness seeping through the sweatshirt, scowls, and pulls that off, too, draping them both over the back of the couch. This leaves him in a plain dark grey t-shirt and jeans damp with rain and Castiel finds himself cataloging details: _Green eyes, blond, freckles. Necklace, black cord, gold pendant, maybe a mask? Silver ring, heavy, not on the ring finger, unmarried? Leather bracelet, thong, very worn. Scars on the hands and wrists. Bulge in left front pocket: cell phone? pocket knife? Boots, jeans, t-shirt: plain, worn, a near rip on the left knee, faded seams._

‘I am an independent researcher. At the moment, I am fact-checking manuscripts for this publisher.’ And this is usually the end of the conversation. People say “Oh?” and “Really?” and even “So what is that really?” but it usually ends in some bad joke about _Jeopardy!_

‘Huh.’ Dean nods, then grins, a surprising flash of white teeth and Castiel finds himself smiling back. ‘I have no idea what the fuck you do.’

‘I...it is...well, like proof-reading. I check manuscripts for errors, double-check dates, names, references, that sort of thing. Sometimes I get bigger projects to work on with an author.’ Castiel shrugs. ‘Driving cross-country is probably more interesting.’

Dean shrugs noncommittally and glances over his shoulder out the window. ‘So how far is Allston from here?’ He turns back and smiles again. ‘Since you’re good with facts and all.’

Castiel keeps his own expression sober with an effort; it is ridiculous that this stranger’s smile should make the room seem warmer. ‘It depends on the traffic. Walking -- perhaps five miles?’

‘Anywhere for me to stay around there?’

Castiel tries to remember. It isn’t a neighborhood he knows well. ‘A Holiday Inn?’

Dean grimaces. ‘Too pricey for me. I was thinkin’ something a little more...’ He waves one hand in the air and Castiel understands.

‘I do not know of anywhere off-hand but--’ He hesitates, then plows forward regardless: ‘I have a spare room.’

‘Do you.’ Dean’s tone is a study in neutrality and he’s looking out the window again. Castiel can see tension in the lines of his throat and shoulders that were not there a moment before. He drags his gaze away to his own hands. 

‘It is not a hotel, admittedly. But for...’ he hesitates, guesses. ‘...twenty dollars...or so...I would be happy to let you...borrow it.’

Dean keeps his eyes fixed out the window, but his fingers tap a nervous rhythm on the back of the couch and Castiel can almost see him thinking. ‘You sure about that? You don’t know me from Adam.’

‘I have a very fierce cat.’

Dean snorts.

‘And a large baseball bat under my kitchen sink along with an assortment of sharp knives and heavy objects.’

‘Sounds more like it.’ Dean shrugs and leans forward, balancing his elbows on his knees. ‘Sure. What the hell. Can you cook?’

‘Can you?’

‘I can scramble eggs like a motherfucker-- oh!’ He snaps his fingers and leans back, grinning again. ‘And I’m _awesome_ at Pop-Tarts.’

* * *

The tow truck arrives after a mere forty-five minutes, the driver and Dean discuss the car briefly, and Dean gets walking directions to the garage. 

Castiel makes a mental note to get him a proper map otherwise he will surely get lost in the tangle of ‘by the store on the corner’ and ‘keep goin’ past the other garage’ and ‘you’ll know what I’m talkin’ about.’ 

Dean retrieves a battered black duffel from the trunk of the car and stands watching as the driver links up tow truck and car. 

‘Does he know what the problem is?’ Castiel asks. The night has gotten chillier, but the rain has stopped.

Dean shakes his head. ‘Not ‘til tomorrow.’

* * *

Castiel wonders sometimes why he bothers to keep a car in the city. He thinks it’s more habit than anything else: he had a car when he moved here and had always needed one before, so why should he get rid of it now? But parking in his North End neighborhood, as always, makes him question the sanity of this logic.

‘Jesus!’ Dean grabs at the dashboard as Castiel weaves them through the tangle of narrow, wet streets and has to slam on his brakes to halt them at a sudden red light.

Castiel ignores him and, at the green light, threads through the intersection. Even though the night is damp and cold, the sidewalk is crowded with pedestrians and the street parking with cars, but, if he is very lucky -- and he is. There is one parking space remaining in front of his building. It takes a little nudging to fit his car in, but he manages it.

Dean releases his death grip on the door handle with a sigh as Castiel turns off the engine. ‘Is it always like that around here?’

‘Mostly.’ 

Dean blinks, shakes his head, and grabs his bag out of the back seat before getting himself out of the car as fast as he can.

* * *

Castiel’s apartment is on the third floor -- awkward when he has groceries to carry up, but the view, if he ignores the dumpsters and Storrow Drive, is worth it. He can see the last slow, wide bend of the Charles before it drains out into the bay. On bright weekends, the water is dotted with boats and he can see walkers, joggers, bikers, skaters, and endless passersby on the river walk.

There is an impatient meowing behind the door as Castiel fumbles for his key and he hears Dean chuckle behind him.

‘A fierce cat, huh?’

‘I warn you to watch your toes,’ Castiel says solemnly and unlocks the door. 

A steel grey cat pounces out of the darkness beyond and weaves her bulk around Castiel’s ankles, nudging her head against his cuffs and nibbling at his shoelaces before allowing him to pass inspection and enter the apartment. Castiel steps inside, flicks on the light, and turns to see how Dean is coping.

To his surprise, Dean has gone down on one knee, his bag at his side, and is tickling Nellie behind an ear, fingers stroking around the curve of her jaw. The cat is rubbing against his knee, eyes almost closed, purring so loudly Castiel can hear it clearly from where he stands. Dean glances up at him. ‘Helluva fierce cat.’ 

‘You should hear her when she snores,’ Castiel informs him. ‘Do you wish to come in? Or will you and Nellie be sleeping on the landing?’

‘Nellie?’ Dean stands up and steps inside, followed by Nellie who is sniffing almost ecstatically at his duffel.

Castiel shrugs. ‘The name she had at the shelter. I tried to change it but -- she only responds to Nellie.’

As if to prove the point, the cat looks up at Castiel and meows loudly, then trots away down the dark hallway, tail waving.

‘Dinner time, I’m guessin’.’ Dean stands with his back to the door, bag in his hand.

Castiel has a brief moment of wondering what the hell he thinks he’s doing. This man could be a murderer, a thief, on the run from the law, in some trouble Castiel could not even _begin_ to comprehend and-- He hesitates, studies Dean’s face, tries to guess at what he does not know.

Dean seems to understand what he’s thinking and backs towards the door. ‘I can leave, man -- it’s really -- you gave me a ride and all and -- the cables and everything so -- y’know, thanks but I can just--’ He puts his hand on the doorknob.

Castiel shakes his head. ‘No. No, of course not.’ That feels wrong and letting Dean stay feels right. Perhaps not the most logical decision he has ever made but -- better logic has ended him in worse trouble before. ‘Where would you go? The nearest hotel to here is the Ritz-Carlton and if the Holiday Inn is out of your price range...’

‘Don’t they do bargain nights?’ Dean smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time and his hand is still on the doorknob.

Castiel snorts. ‘Only for the Kennedys.’ He starts taking off his damp trenchcoat and busies himself with putting his keys on the right peg, taking a gum wrapper out of his pocket and throwing it away, hanging up the coat, setting his shoes to dry -- all things which look entirely normal, give him something to do, and keep him from staring at Dean.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean release the door handle slowly and put his duffel in a corner by the door. Following Castiel’s lead, Dean unlaces his workboots and leaves them propped up on an edge of the mat. Castiel taps an empty peg and then holds out his hand. ‘Your leather will probably dry there. Give me your sweatshirt -- I will put it in the kitchen.’

‘Won’t make a very good dinner.’ Dean hangs up the leather jacket carefully, making sure it hangs straight on the peg and shrugs out of the damp sweatshirt, handing it over to Castiel.

‘Enough soy sauce makes anything edible -- this way.’ Castiel hears Dean stifle sneezes all the way down the hallway. ‘Do you need anything for that?’

‘What?’ Dean sniffs. ‘Whoa -- nice kitchen.’

Nellie is already there, purring and rubbing around the legs of the wooden table set against one wall. Dim light is coming in through the window over the sink and Castiel turns the overhead light on. The kitchen is a neat rectangle. The stove and refrigerator had been new when Castiel moved in here three years ago. He brought the small table and chairs with him from his last apartment and they sit against the wall that divides the kitchen from the living room. There’s a black kettle on the stove, a French-press waiting to be rinsed out in the sink, and an array of tea boxes on a shelf near the stove. There’s a philodendron with a single long trailer looping around the window rod above the sink; the pot is on top of the fridge. 

Nellie redoubles her efforts, coming over to Castiel, rubbing around his ankles, and trying to lead him to her food bowl, set against the wall near the door to the living room. ‘Yes, yes, I know. Foolish cat. Do you think I will let you starve now?’ He drapes Dean’s sweatshirt over the back of a kitchen chair and turns his attention to feeding Nellie so she can’t trip either of them.

When he turns around again, the cat face-deep in her food dish and so busy eating she can barely be bothered to breathe, Dean has sprawled in the chair with his sweatshirt on it, hands in his pockets and seems to be watching him. 

What he had been about to say -- something about food for dinner -- dries up in his throat and he is suddenly, fiercely, reminded of how long it has been since anyone other than himself has been in this apartment.

Dean doesn’t look like he belongs -- Castiel would be hard-put to imagine where the man _would_ look like he belongs -- but he looks warm and comfortable and almost preternaturally relaxed and Castiel has to remind himself forcibly that they have known each other a total of three hours.

‘Do you have any allergies?’

Dean opens his mouth to answer and sneezes convulsively instead. Castiel watches him in dismay and rummages in the cupboard for a box of tissues. Handing it over he says, ‘Nellie is short-haired. If that--’

‘No, no, no...’ Dean waves one hand, fumbling a tissue out of the box with the other. ‘S’nothing to do with the cat. Just...got a cold earlier in the week. Keeps hanging on.’ He blows his nose and crumples the tissue. ‘Stubborn little bastard. And, no, I’m not allergic to anything. Really, you don’t have to do anything--’ He’s interrupted by another sneeze and Castiel turns to the fridge and starts looking for ingredients for soup.

* * *

Dinner works out surprisingly well for all that Castiel finds he has delayed his grocery run so long that he has nothing that will make one complete recipe. He has to cobble together spices from one recipe with ingredients from another and broth from a third and he makes biscuits because, if worst comes to worst and the soup proves inedible, he figures he and Dean can make a reasonable meal out of cheese and bread. 

He does not allow Dean to help; it seems to be only self-preservation as Dean keeps sneezing. The pile of crumpled tissues by his elbow quickly accumulates to ridiculous proportions and Castiel silently unearths the small trash bin from the bathroom, empties it, and leaves it by Dean’s foot.

The cooking gives him something to do with his hands, too, and gives him something to worry about other than making conversation. He flicks on the small radio he keeps on top of the refrigerator to make sure the silence won’t become awkward and Dean makes an off-hand comment about the jazz program that comes on; Castiel counters with a passing thought about hellfire radio preachers in the Midwest and-- the conversation rolls on comfortably from there.

What startles Castiel into realising how comfortable it has been is pulling the biscuits out of the oven. The soup is bubbling contentedly on the back of the stove and he glances at the clock to see how much longer it needs to simmer. They’ve been in the kitchen -- he’s been cooking, they’ve been talking -- for almost two hours.

‘Need some help?’

‘You stay there -- I have no desire to catch a cold.’ Castiel waves a finger firmly at Dean and flips biscuits off the pan onto a rack. 

‘I promise not to sneeze on you, okay?’ Dean eases to his feet. ‘Where’re your bowls?’

Castiel sighs and points. ‘Over the sink.’

Dean looks around and Castiel is about to ask him what he’s looking for when Dean picks one of the rubber gloves off the sink and uses it to get the bowls out of the cupboard. He stands by the side of the stove, one bowl balanced on one glove in each hand and grins at Castiel. ‘See? Not a germ in sight.’

Castiel swallows back a nearly irrepressible desire to hoot with laughter -- Dean looks completely ridiculous, sock-footed, jeans still damp at the hems, grinning at him as though he has just pulled off the best prank ever, with a bright blue dish glove draped over each palm. With effort, Castiel keeps his face straight and scoops soup into both bowls. ‘Salt and pepper are on the table.’

Dean looks at him for a fraction of a second longer and Castiel is about to ask if something is wrong when Dean blinks and turns away, going back to the table and taking his seat again.

The biscuits haven’t risen as well as they might but the soup is remarkably good for being an amalgam of three recipes. 

‘You’re a good cook.’ Dean dips a hunk of biscuit in the remains of the broth and watches it soak.

Castiel shrugs. ‘I do not like take-out.’

Dean glances up at him, starts to speak, stops, then starts again: ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘If you wish. I do not promise to answer.’

‘Why do you talk like that? No contractions, no slang...it’s all very...’ Dean waves his biscuit-free hand. ‘English teacher.’

Castiel blinks. ‘Habit...I suppose. I...think in full sentences...for my work, at least. I suppose...the habit carries over.’

‘So it’s not like nuns were beating you with rulers all through grade school?’ Dean cocks an eyebrow at him and takes a bite out of the brothed biscuit.

‘No. The orphanage was not religious.’

‘You went to school there, too?’

‘For the first few years. I went to boarding school after that -- a scholarship from the board.’

‘Nice.’

Castiel shrugs. It had been a better education than the local high school would have afforded, but it had been cold and tiring and a lot of very hard work. He thinks about saying it aloud -- that the scholarship had been an honor but the requirement to live up to it fatiguing -- but the thought itself makes him tired. When he glanced up at Dean, though, the young man was watching him, amber green eyes sharp on his face. When Dean realised he had been seen, he leaned back in his chair immediately, returning his attention to the chunk of biscuit, now thoroughly soaked.

‘It was...interesting.’

The corner of Dean’s mouth quirks up, but whatever he is about to say next is lost in a colossal sneeze.

‘The other boys were...not sure what to do with me. I got very used to being on my own.’ There had been one who was sure -- Castiel remembers him. But there’s no need to tell Dean that story. ‘One of the teachers was very -- particular about the language we used. I imagine I picked up the habit from her.’

‘Sounds like fun.’ Dean’s tone indicates exactly the opposite but he says nothing else, concentrating on dropping the crumpled tissue into the exact middle of the trash bin.

‘I have had more fun,’ Castiel says thoughtfully.

Dean glances up at him and grins. ‘Glad to hear it.’

For a disturbing second, Castiel’s throat chokes with words: about the boys, the teachers, the classes -- how hard it had been to leave what few friends he had at the home behind, how they had all stopped writing to each other, the loathsome smell of the soap dispensers in the gym showers, the physics teacher who had been the bane of his personal existence. For a moment, he thinks he will not be able to bite them back. 

It will be a replay of that intensely embarrassing dinner with a long-gone ex where Castiel had half a drink too many and begun talking about gym class. Halfway through the monologue, he had realised the look on his then-boyfriend’s face had changed from sympathetic horror to real horror and shut his mouth abruptly in mid-sentence. 

‘You okay?’ 

Castiel swallows the words with the last spoonful of soup and nods.

Dean looks as though he’s not quite convinced but leaves the point alone. 

‘Where did you go to school?’ It seems like a safe question but the faint tension in Dean’s shoulders tells Castiel it isn’t.

‘Lots of places. My dad...we moved around a lot.’

‘A military family?’

‘Uh -- well, my dad was in the Marines.’

Castiel frowns slightly, picking up Dean’s empty bowl and stacking it with his own. ‘So...you lived on military bases?’

Dean shifts back in his chair, pulling one foot beneath himself. ‘Once or twice, yeah.’

Castiel drops the bowls in the sink, runs water into the soup pot, and fishes out a container for the left-over biscuits. There’s something subtly wrong about Dean’s answers -- but it’s late and he’s tired and hardly up to figuring out what it is and, in the end, it isn’t really his business.

‘Would you like some tea?’ He lights the burner under the kettle.

Dean blinks, then shrugs. ‘Sure.’

‘I have something that may help your cold.’ Castiel fishes at the back of the tea shelf and pulls out a box of strongly scented peppermint tea, heavily laced with hibiscus, echinacea, lemon, and some other herbs he doesn’t remember. He makes two cups and doses them both with honey. Despite Dean’s care with the dish gloves, he doubts he will escape this. ‘It is more comfortable in the living room.’

* * *

Nellie has long since abandoned them for the comforts of the wide grey couch under the windows. She is curled into a loose ball in one corner, her back pressed firmly to the cushions, one paw over her nose, wheezing gently as she breathes.

Dean snickers.

‘I told you she snores.’ Castiel offers one cup and glances around the room, belatedly wondering how long it has been since he last cleaned.

The room is a little rumpled-looking: books and manuscripts are stacked in untidy piles on the broad wooden table he uses as a desk; his laptop is dark at one end of it. A couple of magazines and a stack of library books are on the low wooden coffee table, mostly hiding the scars, cigarette burns, and paint stains that give away the fact that it’s a dumpster refugee. There’s a cushion sagging in his desk chair and his favorite ragged grey sweater over one arm of the couch.

There are three tall floor lamps and he turns on two, then goes to drop the blinds over the windows looking over the river. When he turns back, Dean is inspecting the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that cover the wall between the windows and the hall towards the bedrooms. 

‘You are welcome to borrow whatever you wish,’ Castiel offers, sitting down beside Nellie and stroking her short grey fur. She whimpers into her paw, then stretches and catches at his hand. Her eyes half-open and she peers at him as if to confirm that he is who she thinks he is, then gives his hand a lazy lick and curls back to sleep.

‘Thanks.’ Dean taps at one of the bookshelves, then turns away. ‘I might.’ He takes in the desk and adds, ‘So you’re researching all that?’

‘No. I have three projects at the minute but one is a pass through work I have already done; I like to be as thorough as possible.’

‘So you must’ve done something other than boarding school.’ Dean tucks himself into an armchair across from Castiel and props one foot on the edge of the low coffee table between them.

Castiel nods. ‘I went to college, of course.’

‘Of course.’

Castiel wishes he could bite the words back; the flatness in Dean’s voice tells him everything he needs to know about what he shouldn’t have said. ‘I mean, I -- I was -- I was lucky, Dean. I got scholarships when I needed them. I was _able_ to go to college.’

The corner of Dean’s mouth quirks up again: not quite a smile. ‘S’okay.’

Castiel takes a sip of tea and tries to think of something to say that will not be entirely unfortunate. ‘What does your brother do in California?’

‘Go to college.’

It had been worth a try, but he was right back where he started. ‘Oh.’

Dean smirks at him and Castiel scowls at his tea. 

‘You really read those?’ Castiel glances up and Dean is waving a hand at the neat row of paperbacks on a bookcase shelf.

‘Oh, those? Yes. They’re amusing.’ The _Supernatural_ novels aren’t the reading he’s most proud of, but he can’t seem to stop himself buying a new one when they come out. 

‘Yeah, I guess.’

‘You don’t like them?’

Dean shrugs and studies his cup of tea. ‘They’re...okay, I guess. If you like that sort of thing. My dad hated them.’

‘Why?’

Another shrug and silence as Dean takes a long sip of tea. It leaves his lips damp, as if he had just licked them and Castiel wrenches his eyes back to Nellie, stroking random patterns through her fur and telling himself it is the wrongest of wrong things to eye a young man who, if nothing else, will be gone in the morning.

When he glances back up again, sure that he has his face under control, Dean is watching him. The young man’s eyes snap away as soon as Castiel meets them and Castiel has to take another sip of tea to moisten his suddenly dry throat.

* * *

By the time he goes to bed that night, Castiel is half-hard and furious with himself. 

He sits on the edge of his bed, glaring down at his crotch, and gives himself a stern -- silent -- lecture, broken into into numbered bullet points on how _wrong_ this is.

Point number one: Dean will be leaving in the morning.

Point number two: He has no idea who Dean is...

Subpoint one: ...where Dean comes from...

Subpoint two: ...or what he’s doing.

Point number three: This is _not_ a pick-up, a set-up, an assignation, a one-night stand, a blind date, or anything else that could possibly end in...

Subpoint one: ...Castiel knocking on Dean’s door...

Subpoint two: ...Dean knocking on Castiel’s door...

Subpoint three: ...anyone appearing in anyone else’s morning shower.

Point number four: It is a gross disservice to someone Castiel has _volunteered to help_ to fantasize about them.

Subpoint one: It is not Dean’s fault that he is the most attractive thing to have entered this apartment in two years.

Castiel gives up at point four because it’s ridiculously clear that none of this is helping or making the slightest difference.

He falls on his back on the bed and throws his arm over his eyes.

Work. He can think about work. He has to work tomorrow. Work is good. Doing his work efficiently is good. Work will keep him from thinking about the fact that Dean is in the small guest room down the hall-- _No._

He cannot think about the fact that the sheets he had taken from the closet had been his least favorite set, so they have that slightly stale smell of unused cloth. 

He cannot think about the glass of cold tea with honey that he left on the corner of the bedside table along with a fresh box of tissues.

He cannot think about the fact that he pulled the warmest comforter off the chair in the corner of his own room and folded it at the bottom of Dean’s bed.

And he _will_ not think about whether or not Dean sleeps naked.


End file.
